Return Favor
by jodm
Summary: Hogan's on a secret mission. Klink's spying for the Allies. Schultz is in charge of Stalag 13. The Heroes want to blow something up. Will things ever get back to normal? A story featuring Hogan, Kinch, and the Black Sheep!


_Hogan's Heroes and Black Sheep Squadron belong to others. I just like to hang around with them! "Operation Black Sheep" is mine._

_Hogan's and Boyington's exploits in WWII, as portrayed in "Hogan's Heroes" and "Black Sheep Squadron" are the stuff of legend. In keeping with this legend, I've chosen to bring them together for another adventure, one that needed both of them to succeed._

_The action in this story weaves its way from Stalag 13 to Espritos Marcos to Vella La Cava and back. As far as the Boys from Barracks 2 are concerned, even their leader's temporary absence can't keep them from creating a little mischief on their own!_

_From __**"Operation Black Sheep:"**_

_Lt. Bobby Boyle ran from the radio shack. "Pappy's on his way back!" Once again, the news spread like a grassfire; good news this time! The entire squad was lined up to greet the transport plane. The plane landed; a grinning Major Boyington stood in the hatch, taking in the sight of his men, his Black Sheep. Did he ever have stories to tell . . . too bad the whole episode had to remain top secret. Who would ever believe it anyway?_

_Now it was Hogan's turn. He wondered: Who would ever believe this one? How was he ever gonna explain it to the guys? Especially as it was supposed to be top secret . . ._

**RETURN FAVOR**

Colonel Hogan shook his head as he tried to clear the fuzziness out of his brain. His mouth was dry and he felt somewhat sick to his stomach. He hated being drugged. Even more, he hated being handcuffed—to Klink!

He kept his eyes closed against the dizziness, tried to sense where he was—a plane? Maybe. The vibration and sound—propellers?—were familiar. "Think!" he told himself. "What's the last thing you remember?" Chess. He and Klink were engaged in one of their occasional games of chess. They were evenly matched as players, he was winning this one. They'd shared some of the Kommandant's schnapps. Then, blackness.

"Sorry, Colonel," a familiar, gravelly voice whispered. "This was the only way we could get you out of there. London has a special assignment for you."

Hogan turned, "Schmitt!" The Underground agent was dressed as an intelligence officer, his usual alias. "What about Klink?" the POW officer asked as he looked at the still-unconscious Kommandant. Schmitt grinned, "London has something planned for him, too. I'll fill you in later." Then, in an apologetic tone, he added, "Sorry. You'll need to pretend to be my prisoner for a while longer. Goldilocks will have orders for you. You'll be gone for several days."

"Several days?" Hogan's surprise—shock—was evident in his voice. Who's in charge of Stalag 13?" Schmitt smirked, "Schultz. Burkhalter assigned him on my recommendation. We've planted a story that Klink's on a special assignment and you are temporarily moved to another camp. Schultz will believe almost anything and say nothing. And don't worry about your team. They've been briefed and received orders to stand down from all sabotage efforts—rescue only." The Colonel breathed a sign of relief. One problem more-or-less taken care of.

He hoped.

#########

_**Stalag 13**_

A stunned Sergeant Kinchloe climbed the ladder to the common room of Barracks 2. He still couldn't believe London's latest communication. Hogan was gone. Special assignment. How? Where? How long? Who knew? So was Klink. And it was all very, very top secret. The news created an immediate uproar. No Hogan? Would he be back? Question after question. No answers. "London's ordered us to stand down for a while. No sabotage. Just rescue. And no trying to find the Colonel."

The barracks door slammed back and a distraught Sergeant Schultz barged in. "Kommandant Klink . . . Colonel Hogan . . . " he stammered. "Intelligence officers were here, that Major Schmitt. He took them, and left me in charge. General Burkhalter confirmed it. What do I do now? I know nothing about running a prison camp."

"You know more than you think, Schultzie." Carter tried to console the rotund guard. "Just pretend you're Colonel Klink—ask yourself 'What would the Kommandant do?'"

"Yeah," Newkirk snickered. "Then do the opposite."

"What about the Colonel?" This from Kinch. Schultz shook his head sadly. "I don't know. Sergeant Kinchloe, I'm putting you in charge of the prisoners. Colonel Hogan trusted—trusts—you and I trust you to do your best to keep things in line until we find out **. . .**" The big guard suddenly choked with emotion and couldn't continue. LeBeau patted him on the arm as he headed for the door. "No monkey business, now."

"No monkey business?" Newkirk's voice fairly dripped sarcasm. "With no Colonel and those orders from London? I don't care what Headquarters says, we need to find out where they took the Guv'nor. If Schmitt's involved, it's got to be some sort of secret mission."

"Yeah," Kinch answered. "But where? And what's Klink got to do with it?"

#########

_**England**_

Colonel Hogan was asking himself the same questions. Schmitt had promised him answers, but when? Even Klink had vanished—Schmitt refused to tell him where. He started to pace, his way of relieving tension. He wanted—no, needed—to contact his team, to reassure them and himself. But even that was impossible. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt a headache, probably the first of many, coming on.

A knock on his door brought him to attention. He followed the young soldier—at least he was in an allied uniform—to a conference room where he was confronted by Schmitt and an unknown general. A Marine? Schmitt introduced him as General Moore, CO on Espritos Marcos Island. Hogan felt his temper rising. He wanted answers and he wanted them yesterday!

The general—Moore?—gestured him to sit. Hogan complied. "You know Major Boyington," began the Marine. It was a statement, not a question. Hogan nodded. "He needs your help. On Vella la Cava. He's got a missing officer."

Hogan sucked in a breath, held it for a moment before letting it go. Find a missing man on a Pacific Island? Surely the Marines had people in place who knew the area (or was it the ocean?). Hogan ran his hand through his dark hair. "Why me?"

"The missing man is your brother."

"No!" Hogan's voice shook. His brother Tim was just out of Annapolis, a Marine second lieutenant, just earned his pilot's wings. He couldn't be missing. "I didn't even know he was assigned to Boyington's squadron. What happened?"

"We don't know. He simply vanished. And he's not the only one. There's a USAAF bomber and its crew missing too."

Hogan stared off into the distance. "When do I leave?"

#########

Colonel Wilhelm Klink paced back and forth in the small room—cell?—somewhere in **…**? Was he a prisoner? Was he here by accident? Where was Hogan? That thought brought him full circle to the last thing he remembered: a chess game with Hogan, a glass of schnapps, darkness, and now, a screaming headache and uncertainty. He was a loyal German, to a point. Yes, he occasionally played chess with his senior POW and expected the man to show up for a dinner with the brass now and then. What harm was there in that? All it did was to show visiting dignitaries how tough a camp Kommandant he was—with a 'tame' POW to show off. Or was Hogan really that tame? There were those on-going reports of sabotage **. . .** But Stalag 13 was the most secure prison camp in all of Germany. Never a successful escape. If only he could escape the whirlpool his thoughts kept spinning around in! Klink continued pacing. It didn't help.

It was even less help when the door opened and Major Schmitt entered. Before Klink even had time to voice a question, the major spoke. "Ah, Klink. Awake at last. Sorry about the rough treatment—it was the only way to get you here. We've been keeping an eye on you." Klink shuddered at that one—nobody wanted intelligence keeping an eye on them! "Not what you're thinking," the major continued. "We'd like you to undertake a small intelligence operation for us." He paused slightly. "In the South Pacific. To be more precise, Espritos Marcos Island."

Klink couldn't help a moment of preening. Him? An intelligence agent? A chance to get away from Stalag 13 for a while? The South Pacific? Thoughts of exotic locales, tropical beaches, hula girls filled his head—until Schmitt's next statement brought him crashing down to earth. "You'll be going out to audit the books for a company we believe to be allied with the Japanese and sympathetic to our cause. You will determine the truth of this matter and report back to us. You will have a few days to get the information we need."

"A few days?" Klink sputtered. "Then what?"

"Simple," the major replied. "Back to Stalag 13. You'll have been on a well-deserved vacation. Meanwhile, your Sergeant Schultz is running the camp." Schmitt handed the colonel a packet of documents. "Study these carefully. They contain all the information you will need to carry out your assignment. You will speak to no one about this. You leave for New Caledonia tonight and will transfer to Espritos Marcos from there. Someone will meet you and see that you arrive safely. By the way, you are now Wilhelm Schultz."

#########

"The missing man is your brother." General Moore's flat statement shocked the younger officer. "He's one of five men who disappeared when a bomber was lost in the area around Vella la Cava and Espritos Marcos. We've found no traces, no wreckage, nothing. There's a possibility those men have been taken prisoner. We need someone to find out what's going on, someone who's had experience in rescuing POW's. Someone new no one would suspect. That's you."

Hogan nodded. "What do you want me to do?"

"We'll be leaving for Espritos tomorrow," Moore replied. "That will give us time to brief you on your cover. You'll be going as a Marine major, name of Rich Hawkins. You're assigned to Supply—you're investigating the way materiel is requisitioned and utilized on our fighter bases. That should make it easier for you to look around and find us some answers!"

It took a moment for Hogan to digest all this: new identity (a Marine?), a temporary reduction in rank, and an assignment that turned him into a pencil pusher? "The bureaucratic mind at work," he thought. "They should have given the job to Klink!"

That reminded him. "What about Klink?" he questioned. "Are you just gonna keep him on ice here?"

The general grinned. "He's on his way to Espritos Marcos as a bookkeeper for a company sympathetic to the Japanese. He doesn't know it, but any info he gathers will be very useful—to us. He'll be going by the name of Schultz. His contact is one of Boyington's men, Captain Casey. Boyington's already been briefed." He handed Hogan an over-stuffed file. "Reading material for tonight. I'll be flying back to Espritos with you. Got to apologize in advance—it's not the best accommodations, but it will get us there."

Hogan rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I know. Pappy told me when he was at Stalag 13. Cold sandwiches and colder coffee."

#########

_**Vella la Cava Island**_

The Sheep Pen erupted at the news: the Corps was sending some paper pusher to look at their requisitions, use of materiel and supplies, constant need for spare parts **. . . **as if they could keep those planes held together with chewing gum and paper clips! Comments flew. "Are they gonna make us count the number of bullets we fire next? Is this some hare-brained scheme of Major Lard's? We got a missing man and they're sending us some desk jockey to babysit?"

Greg "Pappy" Boyington let the anger run its course. He—and he alone—knew who the brass was sending. It was no desk jockey; it was a man with a personal stake in this operation. A man with a missing brother and Greg had to keep it all top secret. He'd head over to Espritos Marcos on the afternoon transport to meet with Hogan. ("Hawkins," he reminded himself.) Meanwhile, he had to brief Casey on his part in this improbable and almost unbelievable mission. Five men and a bomber missing from around this area, a Papa Bear on the prowl, and a Kraut officer who thought he was an intelligence agent. This could be fun, if it weren't so dangerous.

Captain Larry Casey couldn't believe his new assignment. "I'm supposed to be the contact for a Kraut intelligence agent? And it's all top secret?" he blurted. "Why me?" Pappy shrugged. "You look German. He's been told you're working for Abwehr. And don't worry about the language—this guy speaks English. Wears a monocle. He's not a real intelligence agent; he's a Luftwaffe officer who's in charge of a prison camp. Wants to be a general but comes across like he's over his head. He's actually a good bookkeeper. You'll meet with him on Espritos. He'll be going by the name of Schultz, Wilhelm Schultz. Your alias is Johann Kasler."

"Krauts in the South Pacific? What am I looking for?" the young captain questioned. "Basically, any info he digs up on the Inter-Island Trading Company," Boyington answered. "He thinks he's investigating them as a source of intelligence. There's the possibility they're involved in spying and are passing info to the Japanese. They may also be sympathetic to the Nazis. That's what we need to find out. Remember that German sub a PT boat captured off Taratupa a while back."

Casey nodded. "Meanwhile, you've got to deal with our own paper pusher." The major heard the sympathy in the younger officer's voice. "Yeah," Greg said. "Paper pushers! Don't know how they get in the Marines!" He wondered what the Marines would make of Hogan**:** POW, saboteur, spy, a man who made the impossible possible. Hogan would have made a great Black Sheep!

#########

Hogan tugged on the unfamiliar uniform and settled the heavy, black-rimmed glasses on his nose. He'd better get used to a new rank and identity and fast. In a matter of minutes, he'd become Major Rich Hawkins USMC for real. He'd been undercover before in Germany, posing as Luftwaffe or Abwehr or a civilian but this was new territory. If he was to pass as a paper pusher, he'd need to do his best Klink imitation, with a little bit of Hochstetter thrown in for intimidation. He studied the airfield as the transport came in for a landing: fighters (corsairs, he guessed), torpedo planes, even a few heavy bombers. He sighed quietly—those bombers reminded him of his old plane and the 504th. He'd heard they'd been transferred to the Pacific. What he wouldn't give to be at the controls of one of those big birds again! As long as he had his team with him **. . .** He shook his head. "Stop daydreaming, Hogan," he told himself. "You're on Boyington's turf and you've got a mission to complete. Find those missing men, find your brother, find that plane. Keep out of Klink's sight. Then it's back to Stalag 13." He wondered what his men were up to.

#########

_**Stalag 13**_

"Guys!" Carter yelled. "Major Schmitt just pulled in and Hochstetter's right behind him!" Kinch reacted quickly, ordering "Plug in the coffee pot. Maybe we'll learn something." Being left in the dark and told to stand down was taking its toll on the morale in Barracks 2. No news about their commanding officer; no orders from London; no new missions; nothing to blow up. As they listened to the conversation from the Kommandant's office, they realized that the Gestapo was getting suspicious. Things had been just too quiet around here.

"Sounds like the lack of sabotage is making ol' Hochstetter crackers," Newkirk commented, then added "Maybe we ought to take out a bridge or two just to liven things up a bit." Carter jumped in enthusiastically, "I've got some fresh detonators and dynamite that'll go stale if I don't use 'em. We could ask the underground for a list of targets. I really wanna blow something up. All this waiting around is making me nervous."

Kinch looked thoughtful. "You might be right," he addressed his team members. "LeBeau, when does Schnitzer change the dogs?"

"Tomorrow," the Frenchman replied. "I can leave a message for him then." Kinch grinned. "Do it! Tell him we're back in business and looking for a target. It's time we gave Major Hochstetter a little distraction. Carter, get busy with those bombs!"

#########

LeBeau was cooking lunch and Newkirk and some of the guys were involved in another never-ending card game when the barracks door slammed open and a perturbed Schultz walked in. "Where is Kinch?" the rotund sergeant demanded. "Major Schmitt wants to see him."

The radioman walked out of the Colonel's quarters. "Right here, Schultz. What's up?"

"I know nothing!" Schultz' usual answer, guaranteed to keep him out of trouble. "But you need to get over to the Kommandant's office now!"

Kinch followed the agitated guard, a sense of foreboding beginning to nag him. Fortunately, Hochstetter had already left for another interrogation. A quick look in Newkirk's direction signaled the need to listen in. Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter headed for the Colonel's office.

"Ah, come in Sergeant Kinchloe," Schmitt acknowledged the POW's knock. "Just a few questions for you." Then, to Schultz, "Surely you have other duties?" Schultz, recognizing the dismissal, responded with "Jawohl, Herr Major," and left, but not before giving Kinch a sympathetic look. Then, to the radioman, "Sit down, Kinch. Just want to fill you in on a few things."

The sergeant's relief must have been evident, as the major continued, "Colonel Hogan is on a temporary assignment with the Marines—that's all I'm allowed to tell you, but I'm sure you can fill in some of the rest."

"Marines," Kinch thought. "Boyington?" Schmitt seemed to read the sergeant's mind. "I think you can guess who he's working with." Kinch nodded at the confirmation. The Colonel was in the South Pacific? Working with the Black Sheep? "Can I let the team know?" he questioned. The major laughed, "Don't you already have the coffee pot plugged in?"

Kinch's smirk let the underground agent know that he'd guessed right. Then, on a more serious note, the sergeant added, "Hochstetter suspects that something's going on. It's been too quiet around here. I know it's against London's orders, but we plan to create a bit of trouble in the near future."

"Thanks for the warning," Schmitt responded. "Got to keep the Gestapo on their toes. It'll make things easier for Hogan when he gets back and it will divert suspicion away from your team for a while. You'll be using your usual methods to pick a target?" At Kinch's nod, he continued in an authoritative tone, "That's all, Sergeant Kinchloe. Return to your barracks. Dismissed!"

#########

_**Espritos Marcos Island**_

Wilhelm Klink—aka Wilhelm Schultz—stepped off the plane and into a tropical paradise. Yes, he was on a mission, but that wasn't going to stop him from enjoying himself. A few days away from Stalag 13 (and that insufferable Hogan) were just what he needed. He turned as he heard his name called and saw a young, blond-haired man motioning to him. Introducing himself as Johann Kasler, the man offered Klink a ride to his hotel. "The Trading Company is expecting you," he noted. "You will take a cab from the hotel. It is better if we are not seen together. I will contact you tomorrow evening in the hotel bar." Klink nodded his understanding. The German officer was somewhat nervous. He'd seen a number of American and Allied aircraft as his plane landed. Somehow, he felt that he was in Hogan's territory. "That's ridiculous," he told himself. "Hogan is at Stalag 13. But Schultz is in charge of my camp." He groaned. He felt a headache coming on. Even here in a tropical paradise. It was all Hogan's fault.

#########

The object of Klink's ruminations couldn't help looking around as he crossed the airfield with General Moore. The young Marine who'd picked them up at the plane grinned as he noticed Hogan eyeing the bombers. "Ever flown in one of those things, Major?" The dark-haired officer replied, "Once or twice. It's an experience." Just how much of a one he wasn't about to share as he remembered bombing runs over Germany, dodging Messerschmitts bent on shooting him down, that final raid over Hamburg . . . and Stalag 13 and his team. "Not something a supply officer does regularly," he finished.

"They're not Marine planes," the driver continued. "They're part of a new unit, Army Air Force, just transferred from England. The 504th, I think. They'll be moving to their own base soon." Hogan closed his eyes. That was a complication he didn't expect. Hopefully, he wouldn't meet anyone he knew—or who knew him. No wonder those bombers looked familiar!

The young driver's next statement jarred Hogan from his thoughts. "Maybe you heard already—one of those bombers went missing a while ago. Named _Goldie II_, for a former CO shot down in a bombing raid. Nobody's found anything so far."

"_Goldie II_," Hogan thought. In honor of his old plane—and him! Too many memories. Too many coincidences.

#########

Boyington paced impatiently just outside General Moore's office. "Picked up one of Hogan's habits," he realized. The plane landed 15 minutes ago. Where were they? He continued pacing. "Got to remember to call Hogan 'Hawkins,'" he reminded himself. This was going to be one tricky mission. Pappy hated keeping secrets from the Black Sheep.

Greg was just about to begin his second mile of determined pacing when General Moore and Hogan finally arrived. Carrying a briefcase and wearing heavy, black-rimmed glasses, the younger officer looked every bit the paper pusher. Introductions were made—Colonel Lard, Boyington's immediate CO seemed especially pleased that the Black Sheep were finally being investigated. "About time," he thought, as the three men adjourned to Moore's office for a briefing. That this operation was more than top secret and that Hawkins wasn't a Marine, wasn't even a paper pusher, was as much a surprise to the angry colonel as was Hogan's true mission: find the missing bomber and its crew and get them back safely,

"Impossible!" Lard roared. "We've already searched the nearby islands. That plane is gone!" Hogan ran his hand through his dark hair. "What makes that plane, maybe the whole squadron, so important, aside from their fire power, that is?"

"It's equipped with the new Norden bombsight," the general replied. Hogan grinned as he remembered a recent encounter in Klink's office. "So the Krauts are still trying to steal that particular piece of technology," he said, then added, "I've already had some experience with that."

Boyington smirked. It was really amazing what the POW officer knew. "Good thing Hogan's on our side," he thought. "OK, Colonel," the Marine ace began, "Let me fill you in on some background."

The story was quickly told. The _Goldie II_ disappeared en route to Espritos Marcos; a cluster of Japanese Zeroes had been seen in the area and the possible presence of a Messerschmitt or two had also been noted. All had been close to the bomber's last reported position. The immediate area had been searched, but no sign of wreckage had been found.

"That's a red flag," Hogan began. "Even if the plane ditched in the ocean, there would be something, at least an oil slick."

"You're familiar with crashes?" Hogan could hear the sarcasm in Lard's voice. "Colonel," he said with deceptive calm, "I may be a POW, but I did command a bomber squadron. I was shot down over Hamburg and sent to a Luftstalag. I know what a bomber crash looks like first hand! And I'll be returning to Stalag 13 once this mission is over. I've still got work to do there. So if you don't mind, Major Boyington and I need to get to Vella la Cava ASAP."

"Transport leaves in 15," Greg put in. "Ready, Major Hawkins?" Hogan nodded as he threw a quick salute to General Moore. "Wish us luck—we'll need it if we're going to carry out our orders successfully!" Hogan could only hope his team was also carrying out orders.

#########

_**Stalag 13**_

Contrary to those orders, Hogan's team was very much in action as LeBeau climbed through the tunnel entrance into Barracks 2. "Message from Schnitzer, mes amis," the little Frenchman said. "A new railroad bridge just east of Hammelburg. And a munitions train is expected to come through there tomorrow night." Carter could hardly contain his excitement. "Sounds great, boy," he said. The young sergeant's enthusiasm was contagious as he described the new bomb he'd developed. "It's a simple sequence bomb with a weight- and motion-sensitive trigger. When that train hits the bridge—BOOM!" Carter was practically jumping with excitement as he described the marvelous explosion he had planned.

Kinch laughed at his young friend's reaction. "Calm down, Carter," he admonished. To LeBeau, "What time is the train expected?"

"Around 3 AM," was the response. Newkirk nodded. "Gives us plenty of time to get there and back. We can set those charges and let the train do the rest. It'll make a nice 'Welcome Home' present for the Guv'nor when he gets back."

At Newkirk's mention of their CO, the team's mood darkened. They wondered where the Colonel was; would he be able to complete his mission—whatever it was—and return safely. Sensing his comrades' mood, the Cockney added, "Just think of all those hula girls the Guv'nor gets to meet!"

#########

_**Vella la Cava**_

It wasn't hula girls Hogan was meeting; it was a disgruntled Black Sheep Squadron and its irascible mechanic, Sergeant Andy Micklin. The squad, and Micklin in particular, reminded him of Hochstetter and his men, with their thinly-veiled animosity very much in evidence. Hogan remembered that he'd reacted much the same way to paper-pushers when he'd commanded the 504th. Oh well, time for the Klink routine! He'd better commandeer some office space first; then, he'd see what rumors he could pick up on the missing bomber. But first, he needed a conference with Boyington.

Pappy pulled him aside. "Follow me," the CO muttered. "We can use your tent for a briefing. It's great having you here. Didn't think Moore could actually pull it off. Hope your team won't be too worried."

"London told them to stand down," Hogan answered with a rueful grin. "I'm not sure how long that will last. Carter's probably already looking for something to blow up just to keep in practice! And any news on how your Captain Casey is making out with Klink?"

"He's made contact. I'm expecting a report sometime tomorrow night." Greg pulled a tent flap open. "Here's your quarters. Not quite VIP accommodations. Chow's at 1800 over in the Sheep Pen. It'll give you a chance to meet the guys. It's Anderson's turn to cook. He's no LeBeau, but it's usually more or less edible."

Hogan laughed. "Don't need VIP accommodations. I'm a prisoner in the toughest POW camp in all of Germany, remember? No one escapes from Stalag 13!"

"Yeah," came Greg's rejoinder. "You just go on vacation to the South Pacific! Now, are you gonna interview the squad? Check flight plans? Count bullets?" Boyington's snicker was obvious.

"Actually, checking flight plans, fuel consumption, encounters with the Japanese and the like will help me to track down that missing bomber. What do you know about the crew? I guess Tim was hitching a ride in with them."

"He was," Greg responded. They were last heard from east of here, heading for Espritos. Search planes covered that area pretty thoroughly and turned up nothing. But you already know that. I believe they may have been forced down on one of the smaller islands. There's plenty of places to hide even a heavy bomber. Crew was USAAF, from the 504th. All new men."

Hogan breathed a sigh of relief. That took care of one problem. He headed into the tent and hit the cot. That flight from London was a killer!

#########

"So what do ya think?" Pilots Don French, Jerry Bragg, and T.J. Wiley were comparing notes on Major Hawkins. "Doesn't seem like the typical paper pusher. The way he checked out our planes, I'd guess it's the first time he's ever seen a Corsair." This from Bragg. Wiley nodded, "He seems like someone who's used to being in command—but of what? And it looks like Pappy knows him. Wonder what he's really after?"

"Yeah," French continued. "We've still got a missing man and Casey's off on some kind of special assignment. We'll be flying short-handed tomorrow. Maybe Major Hawkins would like to come with us—show him what war is really like, up close and personal."

Greg walked in on the tail end of the conversation. "He knows," the squad leader muttered quietly. "He knows." He headed for the Sheep Pen, leaving three surprised pilots hurrying to catch up.

"Pappy was right!" Hogan thought as he experienced his first dinner at the Sheep Pen. Anderson tried hard, but he was certainly no LeBeau. Too bad he couldn't lend them the little Frenchman for a few days! Even worse than the food were the waves of suspicion and antagonism he felt from the squadron—almost as if he were the enemy instead of the Japanese. Boyington's men made no effort to keep him from hearing their comments: "The sooner we get him out of here, the better! How does someone with no combat experience judge how well we're doing our jobs? How many planes has he shot down?" Hogan was tempted to respond, but remained silent. The safety of his men and their operation back at Stalag 13 might depend on it.

As he continued listening to the Black Sheep talk among themselves about up-coming missions, Hogan's respect for the pilots grew. They risked their lives daily on bombing missions, often in single combat with enemy fighters. They were skilled pilots—he wished he'd had men of their caliber flying escort for his 504th back over Germany. Some were aces and their CO was an ace several times over, comparable to his 25 bombing runs. He'd really like to get to know them better, if only they'd let him. After all, his brother Tim would be trusting his life to them, once they found him and the missing bomber crew. He'd go over past flight plans and radio communications tonight and talk to the men tomorrow, hoping to notice some detail that would give him a direction to follow in the search. He wished he'd had his team with him on this mission. He wondered how they were doing—and hoped they weren't getting into too much trouble.

#########

_**Stalag 13**_

The team wasn't getting into too much trouble; they were planning to cause it, lots of it!

Kinch called a final planning meeting to go over last-minute details for the coming mission. To Carter: "Bombs?" The munitions expert grinned, "Ready to go! Just wait until you see the fireworks!"

"Hope we'll be safely back in our bunks when that happens, Mate," Newkirk snickered. "I'd rather hear the explosion than witness it close up." LeBeau nodded in agreement. Carter's explosions were quite spectacular—and quite destructive!

"OK," Kinch continued. "Baker's going to take radio watch, so LeBeau and I will stand guard while Newkirk and Carter wire the bombs. We'll leave an hour after roll call and be back here by 1 AM. Now, everyone get some sleep. It'll be a busy night."

"What about Hochstetter?" LeBeau questioned as the meeting broke up.

"He'll be busy elsewhere," the radioman replied. "The Underground is planning a little diversion. Schmitt's got it all set up. All we'll need to worry about is Schultz."

"Speaking of old Schultzie," the Cockney snickered, "Here he comes now." Right on cue, the barracks door opened and the rotund sergeant waddled in.

"Ooph!" groaned the big guard as he sat at the table. "LeBeau, do you have any strudel? It's so hard being the Kommandant! I need to eat something." LeBeau shook his head. "I can make some. Peut-être."

"Have a chocolate bar in the meantime, Schultz," Newkirk offered. As the sergeant reached for the treat, the Cockney pulled it back. "But not before you give us some information. Why has Hochstetter been snooping around?"

"Newkirk," Schultz groaned. "I know nothing, N-O-T-H-I-N-G! Major Hochstetter is hunting for Papa Bear—he's always hunting for Papa Bear. You know that! He went to Dusseldorf. He thinks Papa Bear is planning something there. Now, please, Newkirk, would you give me the chocolate? I'm wasting away!"

Newkirk's laugh was contagious. "OK Schultzie. This should tide you over until LeBeau gets a batch of strudel made. And we know N-O-T-H-I-N-G, too!"

"Yeah," added Kinch. "After all, we're prisoners in the toughest camp in all of Germany. No one escapes from Stalag13." He looked at Carter who was having a difficult time hiding a big grin. Kinch could almost tell what the younger man was thinking: "Sure, we just come and go as we please!"

#########

The remainder of the day passed uneventfully. Carter packed his bombs; Newkirk and Kinch went over the map, choosing the shortest and safest route to their objective; LeBeau made a huge pan of strudel for their ever-hungry temporary Kommandant; Baker checked out the radio for new messages, hoping for news of Colonel Hogan. An hour after roll call, dressed in their mission blacks, the team headed out.

The usual German patrols were easily dodged; even Carter was exceptionally quiet. By midnight, they'd reached the bridge. Carter's new bombs were quickly wired in place—he really would have liked to stay around for the explosion, but a sharp look from the tall radioman warned him to move out. According to plan, they returned to the barracks shortly after 1 AM and headed for their bunks. If everything worked, it would be a very short night!

Two hours later, the sky lit up like the finale of a July 4th fireworks show. Not only had Carter's bombs worked, they'd set off the cargo of the munitions train. The guards quickly rousted the POWs from their barracks; sleepy men lined up to be counted. All present and accounted for. The patrols had also reported no unusual activity. Acting Kommandant Schultz breathed a sigh of relief.

#########

Back in the barracks, the team exploded with excitement. "Did you see it? It was spectacular!" Carter was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. "It's my best explosion ever!" Newkirk grinned, "Wait 'til we tell the Guv'nor about it! He'll be sorry he missed it." Then, he added in a more serious tone, "I wonder what he's doing now?" The rest of the team nodded; they were wondering the same thing. None of them liked the prolonged silence from their CO, even if it was on London's orders. Kinch added quietly, "I just hope he's safe. We need him back here."

#########

_**Vella la Cava**_

Hogan's men may have been concerned about him, but he was also concerned about them. He was certain that they were not exactly following orders; in fact, he'd be surprised if they already hadn't planned some sort of mission. He hoped they were safe and, not for the first time, wished he could get in contact with them.

His wish was granted at morning briefing. Pappy gave out the day's assignments: patrol duty north of Vella; be on the lookout for a carrier reported to be in the area. They'd notify the 504th if they spotted it. Let those airmen have something to do! (Hogan smirked at that one.) Then, as the squad prepared to leave, Greg added a final bit of news. "This just came in. A new railroad bridge and a munitions train were blown up somewhere near the town of Hammelburg in Germany. The bridge and the train were a total loss. Whoever did it just kept a lot of bombs and bullets from being aimed at our guys! Best guess it was the Underground."

"Or Papa Bear's team," a proud Hogan thought. "Carter must have had fun with that one. Good work, guys!" He'd square it with London when he got back.

Boyington motioned to Hogan as they left the briefing. "Got some news from Casey back on Espritos. Klink's settled in at Inter-Island and will have some kind of a report tonight. He thinks Casey is Abwehr. Guess you'll spend the day going over reports." Hogan's rueful look spoke volumes. "I'll talk to Micklin, too. It would seem strange if I didn't." Then, his trademark lopsided grin returned. "Thanks for the update on my guys. I figured they'd be causing trouble! Now I wish I could be a fly on the wall to see how the Iron Colonel is making out!"

#########

The Iron Colonel was doing quite well. Klink actually was an excellent bookkeeper so auditing the Inter-Island Trading Company's books revealed several irregularities, well-hidden, but very visible to him. After all, he'd hidden his share of irregularities back at Stalag 13, so he knew all the tricks. Abwehr would be pleased. Of course, money was being skimmed off the top. To quote Major Hochstetter, something he never expected to do, "Heads will roll" on that one. But even better, clandestine sales were being made to a company that fronted for a Japanese firm—sales of small parts that could be used to repair damaged planes. Many of these parts seemed to be headed for an island northeast of Espritos. He wondered if Germany's Asiatic allies had a hidden base there. Abwehr definitely would be pleased.

Pleased with himself as well, Klink decided to take an early dinner and then meet with Kasler. Perhaps he could wrap this mission up by tomorrow and then take a few day's vacation. He really wanted to meet some of those hula girls he'd heard so much about!

#########

The charms of the South Pacific were the last thing on Hogan's mind as he met with Anderson, the radioman of the day. He was pleased to find that Vella's system was equipped with direction-finders. Hogan asked a few questions about range and signal strength—could they get a message to, say, London, for example? Anderson answered in the negative. They'd need to patch through Espritos or New Caledonia for that. "Too risky," Hogan thought. He'd have to find another way to contact his team. Time to interview Sergeant Micklin. From what Hogan had picked up, the man was no Schultz; if anything, he was as single-minded as Hochstetter where his planes—and they definitely were his planes—were concerned.

Micklin made no secret of his feelings or his suspicions, This Major Hawkins was no paper pusher. He was no major either; in fact, he probably wasn't even a Marine. So what was he? He was definitely interested in the Corsairs—range, payload, airspeed, maneuverability, fuel consumption, had they ever been bomber escorts—almost as if he was planning some sort of operation. But he just didn't have the right attitude, the Marine pilot swagger or the real hoorah spirit. He had something else, a calm assumption of command and the expectation that his commands would be followed. It was obvious that Hawkins had his own agenda. Micklin was concerned. "Who is this guy and what is he doing here?" the crusty mechanic wondered.

Hogan was wondering somewhat the same thing as he went over the records of _Goldie II's_ last flight. He had an idea of the plane's possible location—he refused to believe it had crashed—but he needed a good reason, more than a hunch, to ask for a detailed surveillance run over the suspect islands. Had Boyington's squad been down that way recently? He knew some of the Corsairs were equipped with cameras. Perhaps they'd taken photos. If so, he'd have them blown up to show as much detail as possible. He headed back to the radio shack for another conversation with Anderson.

Anderson was also wondering why Hawkins seemed so interested in the missing bomber, but didn't feel comfortable asking. After all, the man wasn't a Black Sheep, just a paper pusher who might close them down or break up the squad if he didn't like what he found.

"Got the photos here, Major," he said. "Even a few blow ups." Taking a breath he went on, "Why the interest?"

"Why not?" Hogan replied with a lopsided grin. "I knew a few bomber pilots a while back. Hate to see any of them lost, even if they're not Marines. Let me know when Boyington gets back." Anderson closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. There was a mystery here. Hawkins was much too intense for a paper pusher.

#########

"Anyone home?" Boyington snickered as he pushed open the flap of Hogan's tent. The Colonel looked up from the data he was studying. "Got some ideas as to where that bomber might be," he said with a tired grin. He pointed to three islands north of Espritos on the map. "They're flat enough and big enough to land a bomber, even without an airstrip. And there's enough cover to give a hiding place once the bomber's down. Now all we need is a reason to check them out."

"I've got one," Greg said. "Casey called in a few minutes ago. Your Kommandant found evidence that Inter-Island is selling airplane parts to a dummy company for the Imperial Air Force. The parts are being shipped to one of those islands. We can set up a recon for tomorrow."

Any further planning was interrupted by one of the squad. "Get over to the radio shack now! We've got an urgent message coming . . ." Greg and Hogan were already out of the tent on a run before the young pilot could finish.

The message was garbled with static, but clear enough for Hogan to recognize the voice—his brother Tim! "_Goldie II_ calling . . . _Goldie II_ calling. We've . . . been forced down . . . by Zeroes and . . . Krauts. Captured . . . need assistance. Pilot hurt. Repeat . . . need assistance. . . Plane can still fly."

Hogan grabbed the mic as Greg motioned to Anderson to pick up the direction of the call. Both men held their breath as Hogan answered. "Assistance coming. Assistance coming. Where are you?"

The young officer named a small island northeast of Espritos Marcos. Hogan wrote the name down, then responded, "Pappy Bear on the way."

"Understood . . . Rob?" came the answer. Then the radio went silent.

"Get the squad! Micklin, too!" Boyington barked out the order, then checked the data. They had the location. Then, looking at Hogan, he added, "Your brother?" Hogan nodded. "Guess we'll have to give the guys a bit more info. They'll need to know this is all top, top secret. At least we're far enough away from Germany that chances of a leak are slim."

The men crowded into the Sheep Pen. Boyington looked grim. "We've found the missing bomber and its crew—and our missing man. We're gonna rescue them. The next part is top secret. Guys, meet Colonel Robert Hogan, USAAF. Our missing man's brother. He's here to get Tim back and recover that bomber and its crew." The surprise was evident, as was Micklin's satisfied smirk. He'd figured there was something more to that paper pusher! Boyington let the talk die down as he signaled for silence. "We'll hit them at dawn. Now, here's what we're gonna do . . ."

A rumble of engines signaled the start of the rescue mission. Hogan slipped into the second seat on one of the planes. They'd take off, then circle south and come in with the sun behind them. It would be a cut-and-run operation: a surprise attack on the enemy quarters, while Pappy and Papa Bear along with Boyle and French landed and freed the prisoners. They'd bring _Goldie II_ back with them—Hogan serving as pilot. The whole thing would require split-second timing and tremendous luck, but, the thought passed through the Colonel's mind, wasn't that what Boyington's squad and his team counted on all along? Hogan grinned at Boyington,. "Maybe you'll be able to paint a couple of Nazi flags on your Corsair!" Boyington snickered in return, "What do you get for stealing a bomber?"

"Back to Stalag13!"

#########

The Black Sheep came in low and fast; the enemy was caught unawares as three Zeroes and one of the Messerschmitts were destroyed on the ground. "Amazing what well-placed machine gun rounds to a full gas tank can do," Pappy thought as he watched the last of the Zeroes explode in a ball of flame. Fusillades of machine gun bullets kept the Japanese pilots grounded as Boyington, French, and Boyle landed.

"Good luck, Colonel," Greg yelled as Hogan jumped from the plane and headed for the barely-concealed bomber. Pulling himself into the cockpit, he swiftly went through a pre-flight check. As Tim had said, _Goldie II_ was ready to fly. Hogan started the warm up and prepared to taxi as soon as the crew was on board. He could feel the adrenaline—the excitement—as he took the plane's controls. It could almost have been _his_ plane, heading out for another mission over enemy territory.

A yell from the ground alerted him: Pappy and his guys had released the bomber crew; Boyle and French supported the injured pilot while the others scrambled aboard. "See you on Espritos!" Pappy waved as the Black Sheep headed for their own planes. A mop-up crew of Marines could handle what little was left of the hidden base.

Shaken, still not quite believing they were actually free, the bomber's crew looked around. "Major Rich Hawkins, USMC," Hogan introduced himself. He flashed a warning look at his younger brother. Explanations would have to wait. "I need a navigator. Hogan, that's you! Pappy's squad will provide an escort. We're heading for Espritos Marcos."

The crew looked skeptical. "Can you fly this bird?" one of them asked. Hogan's lopsided grin was very much in evidence as he answered, "I can! Now strap in—we're taking off! It's gonna be rough. We don't have a proper airstrip, so this is seat of the pants flying." The big plane rumbled down the field as it got up speed. Hogan lifted the nose as the craft cleared the trees and headed over blue water toward its new base. He chuckled as he heard one of the crew mutter, "Damn! He really can fly!"

The Black Sheep settled into escort formation around the bomber as they headed for Espritos. Hogan noticed Pappy suddenly peel off—the second Messerschmitt, the one missing from the base, had picked them up. Boyington dodged the German, then came up behind him, loosing several rounds of bullets as he did so. Smoke billowed from the enemy's engines as the plane spiraled down into the ocean. "Looks like Greg's gonna get that Nazi flag on his Corsair after all," Hogan thought.

Tim Hogan took the co-pilot's seat and grinned at his older brother. "Thanks," he said softly. "You're some miracle worker!" The Colonel smiled in return. "It was a team effort—you guys owe a lot to Pappy and his squad. I couldn't have done it without them. They're good men, good pilots, a good team. You're lucky to be part of them." Lowering his voice, he added, "You can thank Pappy for getting me here. He cares for his men as much as I do for mine."

As they prepared to land at Espritos, Hogan called back to the crew—for this flight, his crew—"We'll be down in time for breakfast! Even powdered eggs will probably taste good!" He was rewarded with a round of laughter as he set the big plane gently down.

#########

Breakfast first, then debriefing. It was obvious that obtaining the Norden bombsight was the enemy objective. The plane was a bonus. The bomber's crew were dismissed to join their squadron, while Hogan and Boyington were asked to remain behind. Moore motioned to Tim to stay as well.

"Tim," the general began, "We owe a lot to your brother. However, none of this—I repeat, none of this-can be discussed outside of this office. I know you're aware that your brother is a POW in Germany. What you don't know is that he heads a team of intelligence agents and saboteurs there. The information they gather and the havoc they create is essential to operations in Europe. You and that bomber crew aren't the first airmen they've rescued, They've returned over 200 Allied flyers to the skies."

Tim was stunned. "So you can't even stay a few days?"

The Colonel shook his head. "Sorry. We both have important missions to complete. And you can't even tell the family you've seen me. It would compromise our safety—mine and my team's." Hogan motioned toward Boyington. "You've got a good CO, one of the best I know. I trust him and I know he'll watch out for you. Now, go join your squadron. You'll make a great Black Sheep!" Hogan saluted his younger brother. "I expect you'll be a captain and at least a double ace the next time we get together!"

"Guess you'll want to get on the way to London ASAP," Greg broke in. "We can get you on your way with the afternoon transport."

"Thanks," Hogan answered. "That leaves only one loose end—Klink." He thought for a moment. "You know, he actually gave us the first lead. Too bad he'll never know how valuable he is to the Allied cause! What's gonna happen with him?"

Moore laughed. "He'll be on a plane to New Caledonia tomorrow; then it's back to Germany. He'll be accompanied by an agent from Naval Intelligence; we've given him a cover as an Abwehr agent, a Lt. Steffens."

"And even a hint of Abwehr involvement means no one will ask any questions," Pappy laughed. "Now, let's get you on the way back to Stalag 13! Semper Fi, Colonel. You'd make a good Marine!"

Hogan grinned, "But I make a better Papa Bear! Now, tell London I'm on my way home!"

#########

_**Stalag 13**_

Kinch practically flew up the ladder to the barracks. "Message from London! The Colonel's back. Schmitt is bringing him here this afternoon!" Of course, that meant Klink was returning, too, but you couldn't have everything.

Barracks 2 erupted with cheers. Now they could get back to business as usual—after one of LeBeau's gourmet meals.

And it was business as usual as, two days later, the Boys from Barracks 2 blew up another bridge. Only this time, the Colonel got to appreciate the fireworks!

_**-30-30-30-**_

_The 504__th__ was actually stationed in the Pacific Theater during World War II. They were based in the Marianas Islands._

_And keep an eye on "Lt. Steffens," the Naval Intelligence agent who accompanied Klink on his return from Espritos. He'll turn up in a later story—under his real name._


End file.
